The pad was its usual mess of sound and energy—Peter’s soft humming as he plucked at his bass in the corner, the low drone of the TV playing reruns in the background. Micky was in the kitchen, sandwich ingredients scattered around him like a culinary crime scene. You sat on the couch, arms crossed, trying not to look like you were checking the clock for the fourth time. Davy was late. Again.

Micky kept glancing over from the kitchen, clearly debating with himself. He finally wandered into the living room, holding a half-made sandwich.

“You, uh… still waiting on Davy?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

You shot him a look. “Obviously.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Right, right. It’s just—he said he was stopping by the record store, yeah? Probably chatting someone up again. You know how he gets.”

You squinted. “What does that mean?”

He shifted his weight, took a bite of his sandwich, and tried to change the subject. “Nothin’. Just… he’s friendly. Too friendly. But that’s just Davy, right?”

You didn’t respond. You just stared.

Micky sighed. “Okay, look. Davy’s the kind of guy who flirts with a lamp if it winks at him. I’m just saying, he’s been real… chatty lately. Like, with the girl at the record store. And the waitress at the Blue Pelican. And—”

“Micky,” you warned.

“I’m just being honest! Doesn’t mean anything happened. But people are starting to notice.”

Before you could press further, the front door opened with a clatter. Davy walked in, shaking off the rain and flashing that same grin he always did—charming, casual, a little too confident.

“Feels like a monsoon out there,” he said, glancing between you and Micky. “What’s with the long faces?”

Micky cleared his throat and suddenly found his sandwich fascinating.